Wherever There Is Light (37 page)

“Of
L'Inconnue de la Seine
?”

“How did you—”

“Thayer collected those masks.”

“It will be an hour before I learn anything.”

“I have to make a stop. Can your detective send the police to get those weapons?”

“He can. You are going to see Francoeur?”

“
Oui
.”

“
C'est bon ça
. Whatever the Communists think, I don't want their revolution here, and France is also my country.”

The Café de Flore was a few doors down from Deux Magots. The terrace was full, but just a handful of customers were upstairs, and Arnaud Francoeur, in a blue blazer and white tennis shirt, was among them. He sat by himself at a marble-topped table in back eating an omelet and drinking a glass of white wine.

“
Très intéressant
,” Julian said, taking the chair across from him. “An epicurean Stalinist.”

Francoeur put down his fork and looked at Julian like a poker player calculating whether to call or raise. “Your French accent is improving.”

“It seems the police fished Thayer out of the river.”

Francoeur combed his fingers through his golden-brown hair. “A rich, naïve American girl with a taste for intrigue. That's a pity.”

“She died for the cause, did she?”

Francoeur wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Jealous?”

Francoeur was playing with him. Jesus, how could Kendall have fucked this jerk? “Of what?”

“Of someone with a cause? You must not be a typical American, Julian. Americans love causes,
non
? For example, your General Marshall will soon be buying entire countries in Europe.”

“Feeding the hungry is preferable to some of your countrymen sticking Jews on trains to Auschwitz.”

“You Americans make me laugh. You are ignorant of your history and assume everyone else is. But we are not. Had Zyklon B been available, your Indians would have died in gas chambers. And Americans will have time to murder their Jews when they are done hanging Negroes like Christmas ornaments on trees. Is that not why so many, including Kendall, are in Paris?”

Julian could have countered with Stalin and his purges, but he was allergic to philosophical masturbation. And he loathed hearing Francoeur say Kendall's name. “Isabella told me you came by.”

“She is my cousin.”

“Isabella is not paying any protection money.”

“That is up to Isabella.”

“And me. I'm her partner.”

“
Quelle surprise
. My old comrade, the OSS commando, the former lover of my former lover, turns up in Paris to go into business with my cousin. How stupid do you believe I am?”

Julian pressed the table toward Francoeur, shoving him and his chair against the wall.

Francoeur smirked. “This is a schoolboy game,
non
?”

Julian got more of his weight behind his side of the table, wanting to break Francoeur's ribs, but the smirk didn't go away. While he may not have been able to write an epic poem, Julian wasn't without creativity. Leaning close to Francoeur and locking eyes with him, Julian snatched the fork off his plate and drove the tines through the top of the man's left hand. The smirk disappeared, and Francoeur sounded as if he were gagging.

“Isabella pays you nothing.
Rien
. Not a
centime
.”

Francoeur nodded, his face almost as red as the blood seeping around the tines.

“Annoy her—or Kendall—we'll get together again. And I'll bring a set of steak knives.”

Julian left the fork in Francoeur's hand and departed without saying
au revoir
.

The sky was steely blue as Julian cut through Place Saint-Sulpice. Men and women sat on the lower lip of the fountain talking while the pigeons up on the statues of the bishops studied the people as if they were chaperoning a social. Julian entered a hotel off the square and phoned Dans le Vent from the kiosk in the lobby.

Marcel answered. “Isabella has made her cassoulet. She says you must eat at the club with Kendall.”

“I'll try. Did you hear anything?”

“
Oui
. It was Thayer Claypoole. Her college roommate identified her. She was struck on the head and probably unconscious when she was thrown in the water. The detective says men from the American Embassy had been asking about Thayer for weeks. They were aware of her, Simon Foxe, and Arnaud, and the rumor about the weapons that Wild Bill heard.”

“I'm guessing the weapons are why Arnaud got rid of her. Thayer liked to talk.”

“She was sleeping with Arnaud and Foxe?”

“She was.”

“Is it possible Foxe—”

“Possible, not probable. I'll talk to Simon. Can you fill in Wild Bill? Tell him I'm bringing Simon home, and after that, I'm retiring.”

Marcel was silent. Then: “
Certainement
. What about Arnaud?”

“I'll give you my pistol, and if he bothers Isabella, you can take care of him.”

“
Avec plaisir
.”

Kendall was exiting a
tabac
on Rue de Vaugirard and slipping a pack of cigarettes into her shoulder bag when Julian saw her. With the air cooler than this morning, she had changed into a tight tweed jacket and tighter dungarees and knotted a purple-and-orange scarf around her neck. He loved to watch her without her seeing him; it was like looking at a painting—a riot of color and curves, and a lingering awe at the artistry of the creator.

“How'd the shoot go?” Julian asked after they'd kissed.

“It went well. But I didn't get a chance to eat. I'm famished.”

“Isabella invited us for cassoulet.”

“Yum.”

They crossed the boulevard to Rue Cujas. The limestone buildings of the Sorbonne and the hotels and houses were close together blocking the sun, so it was chilly and students hurried by, shivering, and the light was as gray as the smoke from the braziers warming the terraces of the cafés.

“I went to Thayer's,” Kendall said, taking Julian's arm. “Her concierge says she hasn't been there in days, and I spoke to Otis and he hasn't seen her.”

Julian dreaded telling her; the story was more involved than Thayer's death, and he recalled how angry Kendall had been about his not mentioning that he owned the house in the Village.

As the street widened at the Place du Panthéon, Julian said, “I have some bad news.”

Kendall stopped walking but still held on to his arm.

“Thayer is dead.”

Kendall gasped. “Dead? Who told you that?”

“Some reporters.”

“Reporters? What reporters?”

“The reporters were by the Seine. Thayer drowned in the Seine.”

“The Seine? Why—what was Thayer doing in the Seine?”

“The police are working on it.”

Kendall studied him, trying to discern—he thought—if she were hearing the whole truth. “Thayer wouldn't commit suicide. Jesus, God, does Simon know?”

“You—or me if you want—can tell him tonight.”

Her eyes misted up. “I've known her since I was five. She was so young.”

“It's terrible.”

Kendall glanced up the hill at the Church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, a Gothic gem with a rosette window of stained glass and students lounging on the steps smoking. “Let's light a candle for her and make a donation to the poor.”

“Thayer was Catholic?”

Kendall laughed sadly. “No, but Fiona got me in the habit.”

They went toward the church. Julian would come clean after they ate. It would be easier on both of them if she heard the rest of the story on a full stomach.

T
he dining area at Dans le Vent was redolent with Isabella's cassoulet—a garlicky aroma rising from the bowls of sausage, confit of duck and pork shoulder, sweet onions, tomatoes, and plump
tarbais
beans that were slow-cooked under a crust of bread crumbs and tasted like the coziest starlit autumn night you could remember.

Isabella kept them company while they ate, a break for Julian because Kendall wouldn't question him about Thayer in front of her. They finished a bottle of heavy red wine from Cahors, and Julian hoped it would make Kendall sleepy, but she drank an espresso and smoked her Gauloises and, after Isabella went to greet customers, eyeballed Julian through the candlelight as if she were ready to give him the third degree. Just then, however, Otis came in with a waiter Julian recognized from La Contrescarpe. He had milky skin and hair the color of a new penny. Otis's quartet was playing downstairs later.

“You hear about Thayer?” Otis asked, his speech thick, his eyes half-closed. “It's all they talkin' 'bout in Saint-Germain.”

“We did,” Kendall said. “It's unbelievable.”

“Yeah, baby, October ain't no month for a swim.”

The waiter put his arm around Otis's waist, and they went to the bar.

“He's hopped up,” Julian said.

“So's his new friend. I talked to Otis about it, and he told me it's none of my business. You're not going to tell me that, are you?”

“Doubt I could get away with it.”

In his apartment, Julian lit the candles in the jars on the mantelpiece, then sat at one end of the couch while Kendall sat at the other. On the walk home, Julian had resolved to give it to her straight. “Arnaud—or one of his Commie buddies—murdered Thayer.”

Kendall stared at him as if Julian had merely informed her that Arnaud and Thayer were seen talking at Deux Magots. In a voice equal parts disbelief and contempt, she said, “That's absurd. You just don't like Arnaud because—we both know why.”

“According to a detective, Thayer was knocked out and dumped in the river.”

“And that proves Arnaud did it?”

“Or had it done. Thayer was working with him.”

“Thayer never worked a day in her life.”

“Arnaud was sleeping with her. Maybe that made her more industrious. I can't say.”